In Bloom
by scrapbullet
Summary: Some people just can't survive this kind of torture, the kind that eats at you from the inside-out and demands that you give in. As strong as Dean Winchester is, not even he can fight forever. Alistair/Dean, warning for dark themes.


Disclaimer; I don't own a thing. Nope. Wish I did, but I don't. Spoilers for Season 4, warnings for dark themes.

In Bloom

"Oh how the mighty have fallen," Alistair murmurs, tasting the sweetness of torment spreading across the tongue. Gourmet, fine wine. Ambrosia, as wonderful as the stain and affliction of sin on the soul. Perhaps it is the magnificent way that tendon and muscle stretches so invitingly across a skeletal frame, bereft of life and innocence and goodness.

Such a sight stirs his black soul.

Bruised lips part in a twisted mockery of a scream, the agony blooming across Alistair's senses. It thrills him, the poignancy of torture, and the terror of his prey breathing into his lungs, as soft and wet as a kiss. His prize, bleeding in a cascade of crimson onto the ground, the very tendrils of metal and stone and flame branded into Dean's flesh, rendering him immobile. Glassy-eyed.

The sheer white of his ribs are on view, slick as the organ beneath pumps weakly, each breath a delicious fight for the next. Alistair longs to sink his fingers inside, trace the smoothness of bone and the vulnerable softness of flesh and tissue. He wants his hands smeared in blood, wants to claw his way in and hollow Dean out, hollow him out so that he can crawl inside the mortal coil and place his seed of corruption.

It's only now that Alistair feels the bud of lust blossoming inside the very core of him, for Dean is beautiful like this. A portrait of perfect suffering.

"Dean... I can practically taste your fear. It seeps into my pores, and whilst I so love to see you like this... your mortality sickens me." Leaning in close to smell the sickly stench of him, see those eyes widen and the pupils dilate from pure and utter terror, lost in the throes of a fever so wretched that it will never break.

Those tantalising lips part once more and Alistair is almost certain that Dean will speak. Those words of before, so long ago now -- such haughty sarcasm has no place in the Pit -- had caused the boy such pain as to generate ill will towards him, the one that had jumped at the chance to inflict wound after wound, flaying the flesh from Dean's bones and rejoicing at the vibrancy of his agony.

And now, now those words no longer come.

"What? Nothing to say? That's... such a shame..."

Perhaps it is because dear, sweet Dean no longer has a tongue.

The boy chokes on his own blood frequently, Alistair muses, leaning in to lick a tiny rivulet of blood from the prey's mouth, so often that he has grown bored of watching him drown in his own lifeblood before he can bleed out. And yet, just one drop of that luscious claret causes the Demon's mouth to water in such a manner as to crave for more, the hunger pounding through him and demanding acquiescence.

Thrusting his tongue into that mouth, Alistair's tastes bitter defeat. Dean moans, the sound of a wounded animal struggling against a predator, a predator it knows it cannot win against. And as teeth bite viciously into the seeping wound of what is left of his tongue, Dean allows those precious tears to fall, eyes bright with pain.

"I've come to ask you once more, Dean," Alistair utters, a smile smeared with gore splitting his face in two. "But then, you know the question by now, don't you?" Cupping the boys face Alistair breathes it in, such anguish. "And to think," he says, tilting Dean's head up to reveal the lacerations on his gorgeous face, sunk deep into the muscle, "you'd once been so self righteous."

A pause, eternity in a single moment.

Those pretty eyes tear away from Alistair's, defeated.

"Come now... how long can you last? How long have you suffered?" It's a mockery of tenderness, the way he wipes away the tears that stain Dean's face, a gift. "You understand the trade; just say the word." Fingers trace the strong line of a jaw; close enough to breathe the embittered breath in Dean's lungs.

The very being of Dean Winchester seems to shudder, stricken, the sound escaping his throat as ghastly and terrible as the screams that have been ripped from his vocal chords for so long. Ah, to have defeated ones foe, to have tasted their fear and their agony only to be rewarded with such beauty. And he is, with blood smeared across pale flesh and dripping gore from open wounds, Dean is the very picture of perfection. His body arches, and lips crash together in a bruising mass of bloody flesh, as harsh and unforgiving as life and death. It seals the deal.

"I'll take that as a yes."

All it takes is for that affirmation for it all to fade away, seep back into the pores, leaving Dean gasping for breath and shuddering with need, fingers grasping for purchase, for someone that he will never share this with, never be soaked in the stain of torment. _Brother._ Seeped in sin and broken to the core, this is what Alistair dreams of. When all is said and done, to reach inside ones soul, grasp it, and pull it down into the pit of sin... is what makes his job worth doing.


End file.
